Despair of His Own
by Appreciates Fine Labrats
Summary: When Greg Sanders is kidnapped by a calculating criminal with nothing left to lose, the team must find him and bring him back before it's too late. Set after Who Shot Sherlock?
1. Ice in the Desert

**This is my first fan fiction, so I hope I haven't made any glaring mistakes. One of my pet peeves is reactions which are out of character for the show, so I have tried to stay as close to the show's portrayal of each character as I can. I hope it worked.**

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

Greg blinked his eyes groggily, opening them and wincing as blinding light hit his face. He waited while his eyes adjusted and moved his head from side to side, trying to loosen the kinks in his neck. He attempted to move his fingers and was rewarded, though movement and circulation was restricted by the ropes binding his wrists behind him. His ankles were similarly bound to the legs of the rickety chair he was sitting in. While sore, he was grateful to feel no permanent damage or broken bones in his body.

He had a vague recollection of being hit, a searing pain travelling down his spine and then blackness. Muffled voices had reached him through the veil of darkness as he drifted in and out of consciousness. A bumpy ride in a car, perhaps, then nothing.

Looking up, his eyes now adjusted to the sunlight that flooded the sparse room, he spied a ceiling far above him. The light came from a high window, too high to see out of. He quickly dismissed the window as a possibility and focused his gaze on the rest of the room. As he looked around, the fog left his mind and memories came flooding back.

_The team was assembled in the break room, ready to receive their assignments. It was the beginning of shift, so their eyes were bright, moods cheerful and there was no need for coffee. Nick and Warrick were animatedly discussing the football season's best and worst plays. Sara was looking over her completed case reports, humming a tune to herself, and Catherine stood rolling her eyes at the boys' heated conversation. Greg looked around at his colleagues and smiled to himself, enjoying the lively buzz of the lab. They looked up as Grissom came to stand in the doorway and turned their attention to him. He adjusted his glasses as he read out loud from the assignments in his hands._

_"We appear to have unprecedented carnage tonight. We're going to be spread a bit thin, I'm afraid. Catherine, you have a 419 near the strip. Warrick, you also have a 419 at a strip mall in Henderson, and Nick, 419 at an apartment complex on Seagall Street. Sara, you'll take the 419 at the corner of Dupont and McCray."_

_Sara raised her eyebrows and whistled under her breath, "Four in one night, that must be some kind of record."_

_The others nodded in agreement._

_"What about me?" asked Greg._

He was jerked out of his recollections by the sound of a key turning in a lock. Greg glanced to his left at the solitary metal door in the wall which was opening, revealing a dark passage, and saw a man step through the doorway into sunlight. He was tall, even for a man, and toned, wearing khaki dress pants and a white shirt with the top button undone. He would not have looked out of place in an African safari, nor did he look like a man who regularly did hard labour. Greg noticed his shoes were dusty. His expression was inscrutable as he closed the door behind him with a soft click.

"Good morning, Greg."

Greg observed him silently, wondering how his captor knew his name.

"A quiet one," smiled the man. "Suit yourself."

The smile did not reach his eyes. They were dead, as if his soul had been removed a long time ago, leaving nothing but cruelty and resolve.

"Let me begin by warning you. I am not your friend, and you cannot dissuade me. Whatever hopes you had of changing my mind, reaching out to the hurt little boy inside, perhaps, will have to be set aside. I will give you the truth right now, and the truth is that you will not survive this ordeal."

Greg's insides froze as the cold words spread out into the room, the warmth of the sunlight suddenly having no effect on him. His stomach was a rolling mass of fear, threatening to engulf him as he silently shook in his restraints. The man's face was impassive as he delivered his pronouncement, but Greg, though fighting with every fibre of his being to negate the thought, believed him.

"If you behave and accept your fate, your final hours will be moderately pleasant. If you resist, as I'm sure you will based on that determined glare you are trying to conceal from me, there will be consequences. I invite you to seriously consider my proposition; once you have decided there will be no recourse."

The man circled Greg and scrutinized the ropes binding him to the chair, checking to see if they were still tight, then looked around the room to make sure there was no debris lying around. Satisfied, he exited the room with a final look at his prisoner.

At the sound of the soft click of the door closing, Greg dropped his head to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the tears and the feeling of despair that first trickled, then broke through and ran shrieking through his mind.


	2. A Treatise on Ethical Responsibility

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

_"What about me?" asked Greg._

_Grissom raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly._

_"You're with me, Greg." _

_The others grinned and Warrick and Nick clapped their hands on Greg's back. They were proud of their newest team member; he had just passed his final proficiency and this was his first true foray into the field. To go out with Grissom, no less, was something they were sure he was happy about. _

_Greg coughed and turned his face away, shy at all the attention he was receiving, though inwardly he was pleased._

_Grissom continued, "We've got an armed burglary gone bad at Finch Street. Looks like this is going to be a long night."_

Greg blinked and raised his head slowly, finding himself back in the accursed room which was filled with the soft light of what he surmised to be late afternoon. He must have dozed off, the heat being oppressive and his prison having an eerie silence about it. He thought back to the chilling words of his captor.

_You will not survive this ordeal..._

Tilting his head back, Greg shut his eyes, despair washing over him again as before, though without the wild madness. He thought of his family, his teammates, and all the missed opportunities in his life. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the despair faded down into the pit of his stomach, his mind regrouped, and he grimaced in determination. He would not go down without a fight.

He processed the room he was in with a quick glance. There was nothing in it save for the window and his chair. The metal door to his left was smooth brushed metal, glinting in the pale light. It seemed out of place in the wall it occupied, looking recently bought, while the room had apparently been hewn out of a sandhill or large boulder. It had no keyhole or knob, just a handle.

He must have it rigged to open somehow, but he wasn't holding anything when he talked to me, Greg thought.

Greg looked down at himself and saw he was wearing only his shirt and pants; his vest and equipment must have been confiscated by the man.

At that point, Greg's heart leaped into his throat. He still felt an unreasoning panic at the thought of the man's words which had so callously sealed his fate.

_You will not survive this ordeal..._

Greg shifted in his chair, leaning to the side and jerking his body. The chair moved slightly. He tried again, this time met with a satisfying thump as the chair legs found a new position. He gave one final jerk and yelped when the chair tipped over, sending him crashing to the ground. A thud resounded though the room as his shoulder connected with the ground, his head and neck snapped and hit the floor. He felt pain travel through his body, saw the corners of his vision blur, blacken, then come together and envelop him in a blissful chasm.

_Grissom and Greg finished packing the last boxes with evidence into the Denali. They surveyed the entrance to the jewellery store one last time, and, satisfied, closed the trunk and climbed into the front seat._

_Grissom looked over at Greg and smiled gently, "So, Greg? How was it?"_

_Greg looked up uncertainly, "Am I being evaluated?"_

_"No, Greg," said Grissom softly. "This is just a big step for you. I wanted to warn you...that you won't receive any special treatment from me."_

_Greg's face broke into a smile._

_"Gris, I'd be very disappointed in you if I did. We cool?" He raised his fist and offered it to Grissom._

_Grissom quirked an eyebrow._

_Greg lowered his hand, grinning, "No? Okay then!"_

_Grissom rolled his eyes good naturedly and started the car._


	3. The Outside Matches the Inside

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

Greg felt time stretching boundlessly inside his sandy prison, yet he knew no more than a few hours could have passed. The first time he'd awoken the sun had been blinding him, now the light was pale and failed to warm the room fully. The shadows had turned to blues and purples and Greg was starting to feel the cold. He wondered what his colleagues were doing -- whether they'd noticed he was missing.

He craned his neck up and around. His shoulder protested and moving proved to be excruciating.

Greg heard the familiar soft click and felt the stirring of air as the door opened. Two shoes appeared before his eyes.

"I see you've made your decision," drawled a voice from above.

Greg felt a hand grab his shirt roughly at the neck and another grasp his injured shoulder. He jerked violently as pain shot through his body, but the man's grip remained strong as iron. Greg's face contorted in agony as he and the chair were lifted back into an upright position effortlessly. He closed his eyes, unwilling to look into his captor's deadpan eyes.

_You will not survive this ordeal..._

He was startled to feel something tacky on his face -- he opened his eyes to find the man covering his mouth with duct tape. Greg saw a camera on a tripod staring at him and was met with his battered reflection in the glass. He was sweaty and dusty, there was blood streaking down the side of his face where he'd hit the floor, but his eyes came back to him resolved.

The man stepped in front of Greg and lifted a knife to his cheek. Its edge was sharp as it sliced into his skin, down his jaw and barely missed his jugular. The cuts were methodical, his tormentor almost looked bored. Blood streaked down Greg's face, down his arms, down his shirt. He gritted his teeth, letting out a muffled groan at the sensation of the blade violating his body -- just enough so it hurt, not enough to end his life. The hands grabbed his shirt, tore it open to reveal his quivering chest and then the pain began again, down his chest, one slice, two slices, three. Greg threw his head back in agony, sweat beading on his forehead. Tears lay unshed at the corners of his eyes squeezed shut, his body trying to shrink away from the knife, but it found him, carving, severing, penetrating. Finally, it stopped. Greg's head lolled back and his chin touched his chest.

The man straightened and stepped to the camera. He flicked it on and aimed it at Greg.

"I assume you received my first package. As I see from the news my demand has not been met, you've forced my hand. Take a look at your friend. Co-operation will ensure no further harm comes to him. Every hour you waste is an hour he will spend in agony."

Greg felt his hair being grasped and his head lifted to face the camera. He tried to convey something with his eyes -- don't do it, Grissom! Don't let him win! He was cuffed roughly in the face.

"You can see he has a lot of fight in him. I'm sure you have figured out who I am by now. If my last action must be to kill this man, I will do it. You have until midnight tonight."


	4. Judge Thyself, Father

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

_Grissom drove the black Denali into his parking spot and turned off the engine. He and Greg climbed out and opened the trunk with Grissom taking a box of evidence. Greg began rifling through the packages, muttering to himself. _

_"Everything okay?" asked Grissom._

_"Yeah, just making sure everything is here. I'll head up in a sec, don't worry," assured Greg._

_Grissom nodded and walked to the elevator._

_Greg watched him walk away and board the elevator, then turned back to the unlogged evidence. He did not feel the presence behind him nor anticipate the sickening thud as a blunt object crashed into the back of his head. He slumped to the ground, limp._

Grissom walked out of the elevator and headed to the lab area. He began logging the evidence he'd collected, losing track of time.

"Hey Gris," said Nick as he was passing, then changed his mind and paused in the doorway.

"Nick," responded Grissom absentmindedly.

"Hey, where's Greg? I thought you two were processing together."

Grissom looked up and fixed his gaze on the clock on the wall. His eyes narrowed.

"I..don't know," he replied and walked out of the room briskly with Nick in tow. They walked to the break room and found Sara there, nursing a coffee mug.

"Sara, have you seen Greg?"

She looked up with raised eyebrows and shook her head no.

Grissom quickened his pace and raced to the elevator. Apprehension coursed through his body. A sense of foreboding loomed on the horizon like a black curtain, ready to obliterate the sense of preparedness he'd so carefully cultivated for situations like this. Nick pursued him with a furrowed brow.

"Gris, wait up. What's wrong?"

"I left Greg in the car park more than an hour ago. He should have been back by now," Gris threw back over his shoulder.

As they came into sight of the Denali, Grissom's worst fears were realized. The trunk was still open, evidence boxes peeking out. A shovel lay half-concealed under the back bumper, a pile of black beside it. Grissom inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, tilting his head upward as if to ask forgiveness from the heavens.

Nick walked slowly to the Denali and crouched beside the pile of clothing. He donned latex gloves and gingerly picked up a black vest, fingered the tag that said "SANDERS" and bowed his head. Glancing at Grissom who had walked up beside him, he tried to talk, but found the words catching in his throat.

He cleared his throat, then continued, "How did this happen?"

Grissom's face was stony, eyes distant as he struggled with his emotions.

"I don't know, Nick. But we'll find out."

"Damn right we will," said Nick, standing up abruptly. "I'll go tell the others."


	5. A Clown Should Be As Sweet

**Thank you for your review, Harper. I did struggle with that, and have tried to fix it for the future chapters.**

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

The team was once again assembled in the break room, mood a stark difference to the one just 12 hours previously. Ecklie came in and nodded to them. He had reservations about this CSI team, fueled in part by fear of their motivations and in part by their unlimited possibility. Could any team in the country boast of their impeccable record? And to have them working so close to his was something he was perpetually nervous about. Nevertheless, Ecklie was not one to put a man's life in front of his own career ambitions.

"I want you to know that we will do everything we can to get Greg Sanders back. Consider this is the only crime scene in Las Vegas today."

A stunned silence met him as they realized this was a real crime scene, not just a cosmic joke played on them. Ecklie left the room and Grissom cleared his throat, just as Brass appeared at the doorway, gingerly holding an envelope with a handkerchief and two fingers.

"Just got this at the front desk. It's about Sanders. I'm holding the delivery boy until we can talk to him."

Grissom stared at the envelope as if it would bite, then took it carefully and read the label.

Las Vegas Crime Lab

Re: Greg Sanders

He called one of the lab techs to him and handed it over. Grissom vaguely recalled his new addition to the arsenal, but he'd not had the chance to welcome him. A fleeting regret passed through his mind at the fact that his work prevented him from truly getting to know his team. At the moment, it seemed like the least of his worries, but it was the most hurtful part of the situation. Grissom often found himself wanting to tell his team how proud he was of them, but there never seemed to be time. He handed the envelope to the tech, whose name he now recalled to be Sam. Sara made as if to protest, but Grissom interrupted.

"No, Sara. It has to be tested for explosives first."

He addressed the lab tech, "Don't…look at the tape, just make sure it's safe and bring it back to me. Understand?"

The tech nodded nervously and scurried out of the room.

"Listen, everyone. We're all going to have to control our emotions if we're going to do this right."

"Why are you looking at me?" exclaimed Sara indignantly. Tears streaked her face and made her eyes red and puffy.

"Let's just try to get all the information we can to…help Greg," said Grissom smoothly. He looked to Nick.

"Have you finished processing the evidence from the car?"

Nick nodded, laying a series of photographs onto the light table.

"Discarded vest and black sweater. One shovel. All the evidence from the car is accounted for, which makes me think this isn't related to the burglary you guys were investigating. Greg's cell phone, ID, and tools were left at the scene. No prints on the shovel, the car, cell phone, nothing. This guy's good."

Too good, thought Nick. He still felt responsible for Greg's abduction, though he knew rationally that he could not have done anything. Maybe…And there was that maybe again. Maybe if he had been with Greg he wouldn't have been left alone in the garage. Maybe if he had finished cataloguing his evidence sooner he could have been there. Maybe if he teased Greg less he wouldn't be so eager to show them he was capable. And it was this thought that rankled Nick the most, for he knew that the recently promoted tech was given much flack for a decision which, ordinarily, would have netted someone great respect. Warrick interrupted his thoughts.

"The results are back on the blood on the shovel. It's a match to Sanders'."

The team was not surprised to hear this, thought a part of them had always hoped for a miracle. A switch-out, a ruse. Greg would be back in the DNA lab, laughing at them for taking the bait.

"Let's see what Archie has on the surveillance tapes from the car park," said Grissom grimly.

The team followed him to the A/V lab, a silent group of men and women, weighed down by the shock of having lost one of their own in the very building they thought secure.


	6. Why Not an Explosion in Hell?

**Thank you all for the kind reviews. I'm having a devil of a time trying to come up with chapter names… **

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

"Have anything for us, Archie?"

"Here's everything starting from 8 am when you two pulled in. The cameras didn't catch our guy's car if he did drive into the lot, even if he managed to get a pass. All the plates of incoming cars check out. This is what they did manage to get, though."

Archie set the footage to play and the team followed a black Denali pull into a parking space. They watched as Grissom boarded the elevator, leaving Greg alone to turn back to the evidence boxes. A man stepped out of the shadows and landed a blow to the back of Greg's head.

"Damn!" blurted Warrick.

The team stayed silent, though they were all thinking the same thing. Damn! Greg fell to the ground, limp. After taking off his vest and sweater the man slung Greg's drooping body over one shoulder and walked out of the parking garage.

"Can you get a good shot of his face?" asked Catherine.

"No point," said Archie, shaking his head. "He's wearing a ski mask and gloves. He doesn't even face the camera at any point. He must know where they are. If you ask me, I think he's army. Maybe even special ops. He knows how to stay hidden."

"Great," muttered Nick. "What about the outside of the garage?"

"Here he is leaving." Archie switched to an outside camera. "He's got some nerve, walking out like that." They all watched as the man turned the corner and walked off-screen.

"That's the last we have of him. Sorry I couldn't do more."

"That's ok, man," reassured Nick. "You just page us if you find anything else, ok?"

He wanted to be supportive of the lab tech, he knew Archie was doing his best, but the frustrating lack of evidence was getting to him. Nick wanted to do something – he'd always been a man of action – but what could he do? He could only be supportive. A team crippled by despondency was useless.

"Sure," said Archie, turning back to his screens.

"So we're back at square one. We don't even know what he wants!" exclaimed Catherine.

"When dealing with kidnappers it is often best to wait for them to make the first move," said Grissom calmly.

"He already has," murmured Sara. She had not said much during the playback, but her face betrayed her emotions. It was drawn and pale; Grissom knew it was taking every ounce of her self-control to keep composure. Sara did not deal well with abandonment, and though Greg had not left her on purpose, his absence was taking its toll. To have her friends taken away with no warning and few clues was almost more than she could bear – did it always have to be her? Was she destined to continuously relive the same experiences?

As she struggled with her vulnerabilities, the explosives technician turned the corner.

"Yes!" she burst out.

He was suddenly surrounded by CSIs and the precious cargo was plucked from his hands. The flustered tech opened his mouth but could only manage a stutter.

"Thank you, Sam, is it?" said Grissom.

"Yeah, uh," he responded, flushing from the discreet acknowledgement. "It's free and clear."

The team had already ousted Archie from his chair and loaded the cassette into the computer when Grissom took his place at the head of the group. The screen flickered once, twice, and then settled on an image of Greg in a sunlit room. He was bound to a chair by thick ropes, unconscious, head hanging. A voice came from the unseen space around him. It was chilling, emotionless, a nightmare at once made tangible in their hearts but unsubstantial to science.

They wondered how a voice so cold could reside in a human vessel – was there a man alive who could contain both the fiery pits of hell and the glacial depths of the arctic? A soul surely could not bear such a burden.

"Welcome to my little piece of Heaven, Grissom. Sara. Catherine. Warrick. Nick. I feel as if I know you personally. If you co-operate, you may be able to land a checkmate, then again he may not last long. He is looking a little peaked, isn't he? I'd hurry with your obligatory fruitless search, then focus on the matter at hand."

The voice paused. Emotions raged through the five assembled men and women, from fear to blinding anger to a guilt that descended like all the wrath of Hades.

"Exonerate and release Gabriel Pelowzski. If you comply promptly, there may be hope for your young friend yet. If not…"

The voice trailed off and the video stopped, leaving his words clutching the hearts of five desolate allies.


	7. The Chromosome Wavereth

**Sorry, Harper. That's my tendency to wax philosophic rearing its head. I'll try to keep it down.**

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

Greg swam once more through the interminable darkness, drifting from thought to thought, clinging to each desperately before being tossed back into the storm. His struggles seemed futile, yet he dimly knew his sanity depended on them.

True to the man's word, the beatings came regularly; on the hour, every hour. Dumbly Greg questioned their purpose, the camera having disappeared long ago. There would be no record of the torture he was enduring, except etched on his wasted body. Perhaps the man was working under a time-line known only to him, for when sometimes Greg surfaced from his murky world of half thoughts and profound regrets the man would be mid-onslaught.

During his rare moments of lucidity, Greg would imagine the people closest to him, lamenting the sight they'd see if – when? – they found his body. His mother would be hysterical, she always was. Greg regretted keeping his greatest achievement a secret; wished he'd explained to her the decision that had now forever changed her life. His father would stoically comfort her, then break down when they were alone as he'd done after the lab explosion.

Greg held to the childish vanity of hoping Grissom would make him presentable before allowing the inevitable visitation. The team would silently file in, circle his pale body, look down at it and shake their heads. Poor Greg, they'd say. Cut down before his prime, on his first day in the field. We should have protected him better, he needed it. He shouldn't have taken the risk, he was untested. They'd file out just as silently, his body returned to the cool cave of his drawer. The life of the lab would pulse on unwavering. He wondered what the tombstone would read; "Felled in the line of duty", perhaps?

He drifted out of his reverie just as a fresh blow caught the side of his face. Blood seeped down his cheek, tracing a route through the welts and lesions that had become his entire world. He felt it, in truth, the blood was maddening him. Was he beginning to enjoy its taste? It made him feel alive; his only link to reality when the rest of his body had given up its struggle. His mind shrank, then expanded, with each painful breath. There was the blood again – salty remnants of his former self.

He looked down at a body – was it his?

­

Grissom looked down at the personnel file in his hands for the fiftieth time.

GREGORY HOJEM SANDERS

He thought back to the last time he'd opened it under similar circumstances. It fell always to him, this unpleasant task.

Stalling will not make it easier, Grissom, he thought to himself.

He picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. Fingers poised over the number pad, he took a moment to steel himself.

Must I be the one to shatter this woman's peace of mind? Again, he thought.

The phone rang, then, "Hello?" came a breathless reply.

"Hello, Mrs. Sanders?" asked Grissom.

"Yes, speaking!" Her voice was pleasant, just as he remembered it.

"This is Gil Grissom calling from the crime lab."

Silence. Gil grimaced.

"I'm afraid Greg's been involved in a kidnapping. He was working with me —" Better take the blame while I'm at it, he thought. "— in the field when—"

"In the field? Why would he be in the field?" interrupted the relieved voice. "There must be some mistake."

Gil froze inside. Greg hadn't told her…

"Ma'am, I wish there was a better time to tell you this, because then you could see how proud we are of Greg. He applied to become a field agent and recently passed his final proficiency. This was his… first time in the field."

With me, whispered a voice in the back of his mind.

"We are doing everything in our power to find him."

Should I continue, he thought. Or am I only making things worse?

The silence on the other end was lasting too long for his liking.

"Ma'am? Are you all right?" he asked, fearing she'd fainted.

"Yes I'm…fine. My husband…" Her voice cracked with emotion. "My husband is at work but we'll…catch the first flight…uuh…possible."

Her voice broke and Gil could hear the attempts to hide sobs from him.

"I'm going to give you my cell phone number. Feel free to call me at any time if you have questions, okay?"

"Thank you. Oh and Gil…"

"Yes?"

"I understand why he would want to work with you…in the field. He's always talked so kindly of you…"

As the line disconnected, Gil felt his shoulders shake. The immense guilt he'd been carrying since the abduction had not eased; this conversation had made it increase tenfold. His mind wanted to shut down, stay curled in a dark corner, but he knew there were people depending on him, and one person whose life hung in the balance. How could he allow himself the ultimate selfishness of giving up? Wherever he was, Grissom was sure Greg was fighting for his chance at life.

As the line disconnected, Marit Sanders let the receiver fall from her hands; it bounced against the wall, once, twice, then swung from side to side. She watched it hypnotically, her mind too overwhelmed to make a move. She sat for what seemed like an eternity, wanting at times to scream and rend her hair, at other times to vomit uncontrollably. It was an all too-familiar feeling. Her reaction at news of the lab explosion had been painfully similar. Mingled with her concern was a feeling of betrayal which she could not shake. She'd not lied to Grissom, her son spoke of him often and with much respect, but to say that she understood his decision was a gross misinterpretation. How could he want to be in such danger? The lab was…but it wasn't safe. Nowhere was safe. She could not keep her son safe, though she'd tried all his life.

She stood up shakily, bracing herself for the preparations she would need to make for a hasty departure. As she walked out of the kitchen, she stopped and ran her hands over a photograph, brown with age.

"Does it ever get any easier having children, Mama?


	8. Hearken to the Promised Land

**Finally done this chapter, which was by far the hardest so far. I think my brains dribbled out my ears after New Years, causing me to forget a large chunk of vocabulary and syntax. I decided to forego the lengthy character descriptions here; let the action speak for itself. Things are coming to a head and I promise Greg will be right along for the (hot) angsty action. Thanks to everyone for your kind reviews!**

Grissom wandered the halls, lost in his intense emotions. He'd had to inform the parents of many victims over the years, but to tell a woman her son's life depended on the quick actions of his colleagues – colleagues with no more evidence to go by than she had – was almost more than he could bear.

Brass came running out of an elevator clutching a folder and interrupted Grissom's thoughts before they could become any more maudlin.

"Call everyone, I've got info on our guy," he panted. "I'll be right in."

The CSIs secured an empty room, steps lively at hearing of a possible lead.

Grissom cleared his throat and addressed them, "Anything to report before Brass gets here with his news?"

"Jacqui found no prints on the tape or envelope," confirmed Nick, shrugging tensely. "Let's hope Brass has good news, 'cause y'all don't know how close I am to burstin'."

Warrick nodded understandingly, "Seems like we can't catch a break. Archie says the tape was made at ten AM today."

"That may give us a timeline...which may help with a search radius," said Grissom thoughtfully.

Catherine snatched a map from the shelf behind her, unrolling it across the table. "Right! We know the guy turned the corner here," she said, pointing at the crime lab's location on the map, "at 8:15 AM. Give him, let's say, five minutes to get into a car and drive away. That leaves us with, what, one and a half hours unaccounted for."

"He'll want to avoid speed traps and red light cameras. An average speed of 60 miles per hour," said Sara, circling a large area with a red marker, "give or take, this is as far as he could go in that time."

They appraised the circled area, red marker illuminated from below, disappointment mounting.

"This is a huge area to cover," said Warrick.

"I asked Vartann to talk to the delivery boy," said Sara. "He was called from an untraceable cell phone to pick up at a house in Henderson. Neighbours say they haven't seen anyone living in the house for years. He picked the package up from the front porch; fare was taped to the front door. Money's a dead end, too. No fingerprints or epithelials."

The room became silent as they struggled with their frustrations. Brass entered quietly and Catherine whisked the map away to let him place three mug shots on the table.

"Tell us you've got something, man," pleaded Warrick.

"I've got something," mocked Brass. "Gabriel Pelowski, our convict of fame, is currently serving a life sentence at High Desert State Prison for killing a uniformed officer during a drug raid ten years ago. He and his two brothers owned a high-end den."

"So our guy is one of his brothers?" asked Sara.

"One of the brothers, Samuel, died in the raid, but the other brother, Edward, got hauled in on drug trafficking and brandishing an illegal firearm. He served four years with his brother at High Desert, got out and joined the army. Made a name for himself overseas."

The team glanced at each other with raised eyebrows, catching Brass' drift. Excited, they looked down at the face of their kidnapper.

"He was drafted into Special Forces," continued Brass.

Catherine read out loud from the mug shot, "6'5"."

Nick grabbed the paper out of her hands eagerly, "Archie said he thought he'd be Special Forces!"

Brass cleared his throat. "There's more. Four years ago he left Special Forces and went off grid, not surprising. These guys are taught how to disappear, live off the land. Before he was arrested he lived in a nice area of Henderson—"

"Did you say Henderson?" gaped Sara.

"—had a wife, kids, lost it all. But the house is still in his name and vacant," finished Brass.

"Was the address 435 Bakersfield Crescent?" pressed Sara.

"Yeah, why?" asked Brass.

"Guys, that's the place the delivery boy was called to!" said Sara, already running down the hallway.

"Killers like to go where they feel comfortable," said Grissom, racing after her.

Sirens rang through the quiet neighbourhood as a convoy of police cars turned onto Bakersfield Crescent. Residents stopped to gape at the police presence invading their street, drawing children to their side yet curiously inching forward to observe the action. Squad cars and emergency vehicles pulled up in a barricade around the unassuming one-story brick house. Its lawn was mowed but Grissom could see no other signs of life. Nick and Warrick ran to the front gate but were stopped by Brass' raised gun.

"No, guys. You wait for us to clear the place before you go in. I don't need any accidents; who knows where this guy's hiding or what he has in there."

Warrick drew his gun. "We're goin' in, man. No way we stand outside when Sanders could be in there."

Grissom spoke firmly, "Let Brass do his job. He knows how important it is to get Greg out fast."

Nick grunted irritably but conceded, bringing binoculars to his eyes and peering through the front windows. Warrick glared at Brass before holstering his gun. Brass waved to the assembled officers and barked orders.

"Listen up! Our first priority is Sanders! Clear the rooms, find him if you can, be careful! This guy's dangerous."

Grissom glanced at Sara and noticed she was misty-eyed. He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing with what he hoped was reassuring strength. She looked up at him, lips pressed together grimly.

"He has to be fine," she said, not believing her own words. Grissom nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Brass crouched outside the front door, weapon at the ready.

"LVPD! Edward Pelowski, open up! We have you surrounded!" he yelled, then, hearing no answer, motioned to the officer holding a battering ram.

"1, 2, 3, Go, go!"

Officers poured into the house, Brass leading with gun cocked. The house resounded with banging doors and shouts of, "Clear!"

Brass raced down the hall, working on a hunch of his own. Finding a locked door at the back of the house, he motioned for back-up, then kicked it open. Stairs led into darkness. He squinted into the gloom and started down, aiming a flashlight to lead his way.

Greg forced a tired smile, the simple act exquisitely painful.

"I could set my watch by you," he rasped, eyeing his tormentor. The man gave no response save a crushing blow to Greg's face. As the fever and pain coursed through his veins anew, he was nonetheless peaceful. The small rebellion had served to keep the ever-encroaching despair at bay, and as he succumbed to oblivion he dreamed of clamoring voices in the dark.

Reaching the bottom step Brass looked about expectantly, shining the light into its corners. His pulse quieted as he found the room empty and disappointment flooded his mind. Sighing, he bent down to retrieve a package from the centre of the room. As he emerged from the basement, shaking his head, Officer Sacks came to him with raised eyebrows.

"It's clear," replied Brass, nodding in the direction of the basement.

"So's the rest of the house, sir," said Sacks.

Stepping into the midday sun, Brass' tired eyes took in the scene before him. Neighbours crowded the police tape; CSIs raced across the lawn towards him; emergency trucks stood at the ready. Catherine was first to reach him. Her eyes pleaded, but he could only shake his head wearily. The others caught up with her in time to catch his response.

"Damn it!" burst out Warrick as Catherine pushed her way past him into the house.

"I'll start processing," she said over her shoulder.

Grissom kneaded his temples, defeat pressing down at him from all directions.

One step forward, two steps back, he thought.

Noticing the package in Brass' hands, Nick asked, "What's that?"

"Dunno, I found it in the basement," answered Brass. He handed it to Grissom.

"I'll get this back to the lab. Sam will have to check it for explosives again," said Grissom, starting back to his car. "Help Catherine with the scene."

While walking, he silently berated himself for allowing his hopes to be raised.

"What now?" he muttered at the sound of his cell phone ringing. The number was unfamiliar.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Grissom? This is Greg's mother."

"Ah…" said Grissom, pulse quickening. "Is something the matter? Are you all right?"

"Oh yes, I'm…We're…fine. Well, you know, as fine as can be…I'm sorry, I just wanted to tell you we caught the first flight out of LAX. We're heading towards the lab now. I hope that's okay?"

"Of course," replied Grissom, climbing into the Denali.

"Is there…I mean, have you found any…Is there any news?" came a quiet appeal.

Grissom dreaded telling her they had found a lead, only to have it come up empty-handed, so he settled for a platitude he barely believed himself until he could muster the strength for truth.

"Your son is going to be fine. We're doing everything we can, I assure you."


	9. If It's Time You Need

**Trying to get this out quickly before school begins. I'd like to ask those of you reading if there is anything I should change; do you prefer the more descriptive passages or the dialogue? Next chapter will have more of the frustrations of the team. As always, love the Greggo.**

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

Grissom checked his watch for what seemed like the fiftieth time that day. So much in his life at the moment was ruled by that infernal contraption, and while ordinarily he'd welcome its accuracy he now dreaded each time the numbers changed. Each minute passing coincided with the team's hopes diminishing; they said nothing, but Grissom could see the doubt in their eyes. They knew the statistics, knew that with each passing moment Greg's chances at survival slipped further away. Time had never felt quite so oppressive; responsibilities and guilt converging on Grissom as he stood rooted to the spot. The mysterious package was on its way back from Sam – they'd watch it at any moment. Greg's family would be expecting a meeting before long – they'd been waiting for his arrival. And what would he tell them? He'd failed. Failed to protect their son and again failed to find him.

Ecklie broke into his thoughts with a nervous cough. Wearily Grissom raised his eyebrow.

"What's the verdict?"

"The sheriff won't even consider opening the case again. And even if we did, or something could be done, the paperwork alone would take 24 hours to come through, then another 72 for his release. There's just not enough time," said Ecklie, seeming for once to have a genuine expression of sorrow.

There's that word time, again, thought Grissom. Time is something Greg has precious little of. Time is how long my team has been awake and investigating one of our own.

"What are you going to do?" said Ecklie.

"Find him," snapped Grissom.

Sam turned the corner just in time to rescue him from the artificial pleasantries. With an apologetic nod in Ecklie's direction he hurried to meet the man holding an evidence bag as if it contained the plague.

"Anything?" asked Gil, snatching it out of his hands.

"All clear. I gave it to Mandy for processing, well, I figured you'd do that anyways, so I thought I'd help. That's why I was so late, I'm sorry if I overstepped my bounds it's just that – "

"Sam," interrupted Grissom sternly. He opened his mouth to deliver an impatient remark but was struck by the similarities in Sam and Greg's behavior. Remembering his recent commitment to appreciation where it was due, he moderated his voice and continued more kindly. "That's good work, Sam. What did Mandy find?"

Momentarily disoriented by the unexpected pardon, Sam stared open-mouthed at Grissom before collecting himself and answering.

"Nothing, unfortunately," he said, pleased with himself for keeping the nervousness out of his voice. "It's been wiped clean like the other one."

Grissom nodded, unsurprised. "Thanks."

The team stood assembled as before, Grissom at its head and grimly surveying the monitor. He nodded to Archie and once more braced himself for what was to come, all the while ignoring the scenarios racing through his mind as if on a never-ending reel. No good could come of this newest tape. There was certain to be more violence, more bad news to dutifully relay to Greg's parents.

As the first few frames revealed Greg's bloody form, the team's self control disintegrated. Sara turned away, retching uncontrollably; Warrick hammered at the table forcefully, swearing under his breath. Emotions played over Nick's face as he stood stiffly, from horror to sadness, finally settling on a murderous hatred that shone from his eyes. Tears had built up yet no one bothered to wipe them away. In the protection offered by shared pain and fear for a beloved companion they felt no shame at letting their anguish show. Grissom could only stare silently, mind unable to comprehend the sight before him.

The voice was there again; cold, unforgiving, and heedless of its impact on the people assembled.

"I assume you received my first package. As I see from the news my demand has not been met, you've forced my hand. Take a look at your friend. Co-operation will ensure no further harm comes to him. Every hour you waste is an hour he will spend in agony."

They all stared as Greg's face was pulled up to face the camera. He stared back, mirroring their fear, pain screaming from every pore, the despair in his eyes haunting them all.

At Greg's barely perceptible shake of the head, a fierce pride swelled inside Grissom. He recognized his foolishness at having doubted his young friend and a wave of energy engulfed him. In a flash, he saw his path, his duty clear and the consequences of failure too debilitating to dwell on.

The stinging crack as Greg was cuffed to the face was frightfully loud in the room; Catherine exhaled sharply and Grissom winced as Greg's head snapped to the side.

"You can see he has a lot of fight in him. I'm sure you have figured out who I am by now. If my last action must be to kill this man, I will do it. You have until midnight tonight."

Ultimatum delivered, a silence descended upon the six. Their struggles to contain their emotions were valiant; their thoughts the same. Time was working against them. Each tried to forget the bloody mess that was Greg's face and chest, his paleness and sweat-streaked skin. They pushed the image of his eyes, once so full of laughter and kindness, now filled with pain, into secret vaults of memory. They said nothing – there was no need. The direness of Greg's situation dominated the moment; all thoughts of sleep or failure crumbled under the onslaught of emotion they experienced. Nick turned and walked out, smashing his palm into the doorframe. They flinched as he broke the silence. Warrick followed him, shaking his head dumbly.

"See if you can find anything to lead us to his location," said Grissom to Archie, who could only nod mutely.

"The rest of us have work to do, and not a lot of time to do it," he continued, addressing Sara and Catherine, who seemed most shaken up.

"Are you guys going to be okay doing work?" he asked, gently leading them into the hall.

"Uh…yes. I'll start…with the stuff we pulled from the house," said Catherine, regaining her composure faster. She pulled Sara with her. "Sara will help me."

Grissom watched them recede down the hall and doubted their ability to function. Yet he could do nothing for them; empty words would do little and he could not give them answers he did not have himself. Sighing, he turned back towards his office, carefully avoiding glancing at the fateful timekeeper by the elevators.

Rewinding the horrifying footage of Greg for the fiftieth time, or so it felt to Archie, he paused it and tried to enhance a section. At the sight of Greg's face, pain and anguish radiating, he had to stop. Pressing his hands to his own exhausted eyes, a dozen thoughts flashed through his already embattled mind, each more dour than the last. Pushing them aside temporarily, he stood up and headed to the break room.

So focused was he to reach the salvation found in a cup of coffee that he almost crashed headlong into Warrick.

"Watch it, man!" snapped Warrick.

"Sorry," stammered Archie as Warrick continued down the hall with hunched back and hands thrust deep into his pockets.

That was weird, thought Archie. He's usually not so…Well, this is the time to be bitchy, he conceded. With that, he was returned to his melancholy thoughts.

Would he have been able to survive this long…? Greg's plight made Archie very aware of his own mortality; though he'd always felt safe in the building, he now had ample proof that there were no guarantees, and with several DNA and toxicology labs surrounding him, his life was firmly in the hands of his colleagues. He could still remember the rumble and shock of the lab explosion, which had ironically also involved Greg. How much bad luck can a guy have, he thought.

Stepping into the break room, he was again startled to find Catherine bent over the counter, shoulders shaking with suppressed energy.

"Catherine, are you…Okay?" he asked cautiously.

She said nothing, merely shoved a package of coffee filters toward him on the counter. Archie peeked into it and his heart fluttered. A half-full bag of Blue Hawaiian lay inside.

"I…found it," whispered Catherine. She grabbed the bag, whirled around and hurled it at the door, barely missing Nick. Archie pressed himself against a wall.

"That **idiot** hid it in a bag full of coffee filters! Did he honestly think we wouldn't find it? Did he?" she bellowed, then stared wide-eyed at Nick as if seeing him for the first time.

"Did he?" she whispered again.

Archie gratefully made his exit as Nick collected the sobbing woman into his arms. He gave up on that pick-me-up and bought a soda instead before heading back to his lab. An irrational question kept intruding on his thoughts.

What does she have to complain about? She's not the one that has to watch people's brain matter plastered on walls. Over and over again, he thought bitterly. Sometimes Archie hated his job. Sure, it was great when he made a match – caught the killer's demented face on camera – but the torturous hours of watching heartbreaking footage loomed over his meager accomplishments like a bad dream. Children's last desperate pleas, eyes filled with fear, to their mothers and fathers. Archie sighed and turned back to Greg's beaten face. So why do I do it, he thought. He narrowed his eyes and isolated a frame, searching its corners for artifacts.

I guess for the lucky ones, he concluded. The ones that make it out alive, right Greg?

Greg's glazed eyes stared back at him.


	10. And Eternity

**Many apologies for the frightfully long delay. I was sick and then swamped with homework; needless to say it was shameful and dastardly! Since I was a bad girl, I decided to give you all the ending in one lump. This will probably be my last long fic for a while as I unfortunately don't have the free time I'd like. I'm not done with Greggo, however, so be sure to tune in next for some extremely angsty one-shots featuring our favourite lab rat. Please tell me what you thought of the entire thing; it'll only help make the future Grangst even better. I know I had some trouble with what to include; I didn't want to make it too lengthy but there were some things I just had to write in. I'm all for the short and sweet stuff.**

**P.S. Props to anyone who knows where the title reference comes from :)**

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

They sat in their own microcosms, waiting for Grissom to arrive yet caring little for what news he brought. He was informing Greg's parents, they'd been told. He'd be back soon, but they knew he had nothing to say. No new information had presented itself, and the evidence they held was yielding more questions than answers. They contemplated their next move in a helpless stupor.

Warrick glared at the floor intently, willing it to give him the answers he sought; yet fearing the very results such closure may bring. Images of Greg flashed through his mind and memories of Holly assaulted him, ignoring his feeble attempts at diversion. But this was so much more, Greg was so much more. Warrick rubbed his hands over his face wearily, then resumed tracing the tiles. No concrete evidence put Greg in a nebulous void ñ not firmly in the land of the living yet not technically beyond that final barrier. There he stayed, kept alive in their minds by uncertainty. As much as Warrick wanted to find Greg, he was paralyzed by dread of what they might find ñ blood and guts he could handle, but the image Warrick dreaded most was of Greg's empty face, eyes staring into nothing. Never again to smile at some secret joke, chuckle at Warrick, or grin like a madman at their attempts to find his secret stash of coffee. Warrick continued inspecting the tiles at his feet. Light shone dully on the cheap linoleum; his eyes traced around a corner, up one side and across the other. Their situation was deteriorating rapidly, and Warrick wanted desperately to be able to do something; ironically, action was his coping mechanism. He let out a self-deprecating sigh and pressed his thumbs into the bridge of his nose.

I hope Nick's doin' better than me, he thought.

Nick's eyes were closed. He struggled, still, to contain his emotions. His outburst earlier had only served to alienate him from his co-workers. He hoped he was making a decent showing now; hoped they didn't suspect how close he was to snapping. His body refused to obey him. Mind raced into jagged, threatening corners and tremors raced through his muscles, though he continuously willed them to relax. Part numbing exhaustion, part overwhelming apprehension, he grappled with the unseen forces playing in his body. Meanwhile, his thoughts raced on overtime.

He's dead by now, he thought.

But we have until midnight, responded a small but adamant voice.

Weakened hope still fluttered in his heart, but it was a flame starved for oxygen. His mind waged battle on itself. All he knew about science and all he believed about faith converged to render him immobile.

He won't survive much more torture, continued the relentless dialogue.

But we underestimate Greg, countered the flame.

"Here, Nicky."

A steaming mug wavered under his nose, its tantalizing aroma wafting through his fogged senses. He looked up to Catherine's sympathetic smile. She nudged the cup towards him once more and he gratefully clasped it in his hands. The heat warmed him and brought him momentarily back to reality.

Catherine walked back to her seat and slowly lowered her body into it. When she'd finally convinced Nick that she was calmed down, she had run to call Lindsay. She'd needed to hear her voice, to know that she was fine. Catherine let the overwhelming feelings of despair wash over her, then firmly nudged them back into their corner. There would be time enough to let them rule when Greg was back and safe. She could not afford to think anything else would happen. She wondered if he was thinking of them now.

He must be so lonely, she thought.

The knife was there again. For a while it had been the hand, the fist. Now the knife again slithered its way past his defenses to torment him.

"All right. Does anyone have anything new to report?" Grissom was all business when the exhausted team assembled for the third time that day. It felt like weeks had passed since they'd first learned of Greg's kidnapping, yet they knew he had been sitting in the break room, participating in their light banter, just ten hours ago.

"We got nothing," said Nick. "I rechecked all the evidence. Archie's been through all the traffic camera footage from around here and all it tells us is that he might drive any number of vans with tinted windows."

"That's not possible!" interrupted Catherine. "Evidence leads somewhere. There must be something we can do. Some test we can run, some angle we haven't tried. That man must have left some trace of himself on something he touched! Some trace of where he's been!"

"She's right," said Warrick. "That tape, that man, was inches from Greg."

"Oh yeah, trust you to agree with Cath," muttered Sara. "What we know doesn't help us if the evidence doesn't back it up!"

"Forget the evidence!"

The outburst cut through their squabbling; they stared, stunned at what Grissom of all people had just said.

"The evidence is all we have," said Sara, passing a tired hand over her eyes.

"We're missing something here," he replied firmly. "And it is clouding our judgment."

"Yeah," she affirmed, realization slowly dawning. "What are we missing?"

"The evidence is pointing us to...no one," said Nick, looking from Grissom to Sara in exasperation. "If y'all wouldn't be so cryptic, maybe we could all figure it out! "

"That's it! No one!" Grissom seized his jacket and darted out of the room.

"No one what? What are we missing?" yelled Nick at his retreating figure, startled lab techs poking their heads into the hallway.

Sara leapt up abruptly, Grissom's enigmatic message having sunk in. Eyes open excitedly, she grasped Nick's wrist and looked into his eyes.

"The human element," she said, staring at his face expectantly. When his look of confusion lingered, she waved her hand enthusiastically and trotted to catch up with Grissom at the elevators.

Nick turned to Warrick and Catherine, who shared his incredulous expression.

"That's it, guys. They've lost it."

They traveled in silence, lost in personal torments. Their initial exuberance having subsided upon entering the fateful parking complex, they were now left only with doubts and haunting inadequacies. Were their hunch faulty, Greg's fate would be all but sealed; as it stood, even if by some small chance they were correct, his future might have already been decided. All this flashed through their heads repeatedly as they rode through the lonely desert, the space separating them small but infinitely large. Caught between two unfortunate endings, they allowed adrenaline to overtake them, hoping its chemically induced optimism would keep their reservations at bay.

When they pulled into the prison, an eerie silence greeted them. They had forgotten how late it was. At thought of the ticking clock, they quickened their pace. Two hours 'till midnight. Time was contriving against them.

Their footsteps echoed through the halls as an irritated guard led them to a cramped interrogation room. Grissom's pulse quickened involuntarily at the prospect of imminent success ñ the only possible outcome of the situation as determined by his overburdened mind.

"Sara..."

She looked at him, eyes blazing with determination and a feral anger. She'd already decided what would happen to the man that had caused them and Greg such torment. Grissom decided he would be better off not asking. He hoped, at least, that it was far harsher than any punishment he'd managed to concoct.

"I need you to stay calm, no matter what happens here," he said.

"I'm calm. Just get it out of him," she replied. Sara was unsure herself if she was calm enough, but her need to find Greg alive overrode her cautionary instincts.

Grissom nodded. It was the most conviction he could hope to get in the situation.

"Bring him in," he said to the guard.

"Do you remember what I told you?"

Greg opened his eyes warily; having learned by now to respond quickly to the man's questions, he frantically searched for an answer but could think of nothing to say. Thankfully the man seemed to be in a pensive mood and did not strike immediately. Greg used the moment of respite to inhale as best he could, though his lungs screamed for mercy at each fiery intake. The air was musty but he forced himself to take another gulp, knowing his body needed it. As his mind regained clarity, he again focused on the man who'd become the centre of his universe. He rested easily on one leg, toying idly with the hunter's knife that had of late become his weapon of choice. He stared into Greg's eyes chillingly, expectantly. Finally Greg was forced to turn away from the probing gaze. There was something almost human in the black depths of his eyes, a humanity that for Greg was worse than any torture. He wanted to hate him, to cast him into the depths of history as a monster, an aberration; un-repentantly vile and evil and thus, unquestionable and un-empathetic. Yet here he was, wanting to know the man's motives.

"I used to be normal. You look at me with loathing. Would it surprise you to know that I once looked upon criminals in much the same way?"

Greg tried to ignore the words but they pierced his already weakened defenses and compelled him to listen. Here they were, finally, the answers he had suffered for. At least he would go to his grave knowing what he'd paid the price for.

The man's face swam uncomfortably close to his; the knife pricked Greg's abdomen and began its familiar journey. Freshly healed skin tore anew; he could not contain his groans of agony.

"Look at me Greg. Do you remember what I told you?"

Greg shook his head mutely, brain refusing to work, and cried out when the knife hovered dangerously close to his eye. He's gone insane, he thought hysterically. This is it. I'm going to die.

The man clutched Greg's chin and shook his head.

"You're not going to die yet, Greg. I promised you...You have until midnight. What did I tell you?"

Momentary bout of panic subdued, Greg struggled to think of an adequate answer. Hoping to keep the man occupied, he moistened his dry lips before finally letting out a weak croak.

"That I wouldn't survive this." The man's words had echoed in Greg's thoughts since they'd been delivered.

There was a feverish glint in the man's eyes. He looked hungrily at Greg; his face frightening in the near-darkness. The moonlight streamed through the small window high above, throwing deep shadows and casting the man's face in sharp relief.

"You and I, we are bound forever by what we have experienced here. My brother Samuel died for another's sins. And so we too shall die, together, for each others' sins. Do you understand now? Why I am not disturbed that midnight approaches? We'll walk out together, you and I."

Greg sat as still as he could, though his ragged breathing punctured the tense silence left by the man's words. Greg willed himself to be quieter.

My chance will come soon, he thought. Just be patient. He glanced up to the window illuminating his prison. Time was working against him. He shifted in his seat, hoping to alleviate the cramps accumulated from sitting still so long. A fresh wave of pain engulfed him and he bent against it, fighting back the tears. He knew not to break the silence. And then, too, were the words, which chilled him to the very bones. His skin crawled at the idea of stepping into the afterlife with the man ñ he wasn't sure whether dying was worse.

The man stalked the space around Greg with a restless energy. He seemed to be struggling internally. Finally he retreated out of Greg's line of sight. Suddenly, Greg was startled to find his limbs free. The man stepped forward as Greg toppled out of the chair stiffly. He lay on the ground, paralyzed and wracked by the horrific burning as blood rushed through veins scarred by disuse. He could see the man out of the corner of his eye; he was reaching for his back pocket.

"Before I lost my wife, my children, my job, everything I held dear. I would not kill. Now I kill. They taught me how. But Sam would have wanted it this way. He wouldn't have wanted me to kill a helpless man. Still..."

As he talked his words were punctuated by the purposeful clicks of bullets being loaded.

Greg closed his eyes. He was surprised at how easily he'd accepted his fate; still surprised every time he referred to his life in the past tense. He wondered if his friends were still trying to find him. He knew department policy, at least. There would be no miracle at midnight. A bitter smile played over his lips and he met the man's gaze calmly. At the very least he'd have his last stand.

"Yes, I can see you understand now," continued the man, meeting Greg's eyes. "You've accepted it. You...and I...will not survive this ordeal."

Gabriel Pelowzski ambled into the room, clad in the traditionally unflattering orange jumpsuit. He was not hardened like the other inmates; he seemed in fact quite innocent. Grissom appraised him silently while he sat down across the table.

"Mister Pelowzski. Have you been following the news today?" he began, not wanting to give all his cards away.

The third brother looked quite young, not more than 35, Grissom surmised. There was none of the coldness in his voice that punctuated Edward's demeanor. A faint hope flickered in Grissom.

Perhaps he will be co-operative, he thought. I can see why his brother wanted him saved. He reminds me of Greg.

"I heard some guy's been kidnapped. But you know how it is down here. Not many people care if a cop gets taken out," answered Gabriel easily.

Sara twitched involuntarily.

"He's not a cop, he's a CSI," she said threateningly.

Gabriel looked up at her unapologetically.

"I'm stuck here 'cause you guys couldn't do your jobs, so forgive me if I'm not the least bit sympathetic."

So much for co-operation, groaned Grissom inwardly.

"I'm sure you're aware, then, of your brother's demands."

"Yeah, I've heard. He's a bigger fool than you guys. He thinks life is all philosophical an' shit. Thinks he can work the system," said Gabriel, rolling his eyes. "He thinks you'll actually do something to save some kid's life."

"He's not some kid. He's a man. A man who is more respected and loved than you will ever be!"

Grissom was shocked at Sara's outburst. He stopped her from lunging at the inmate, who seemed almost as unperturbed by her semi-attack as the guard.

Gabriel leveled Grissom a penetrating look.

"But that won't happen, will it."

Grissom hesitated, then shook his head.

"Didn't think so. First thing you learn when you get here; don't get your hopes up. Start hoping for a miracle, you're liable to get a nice dose of reality. I don't think I have to tell you what that means in here, do I."

His eyes roved over Sara's body, making her shift uncomfortably to a position further behind Grissom.

As a means of taking control of the conversation, or perhaps to take Gabriel's eyes off Sara, Grissom made a split second decision that he hoped he wouldn't regret. In truth, something had been nagging at him since Edward's ultimatum had been delivered.

"The DA is not prepared to negotiate with kidnappers, especially convicted felons. However, your brother obviously had a reason for coming to the CSIs rather than the detectives. Am I correct in assuming you both feel you've been wrongly accused?"

Gabriel remained silent, but the recognizant flicker in his eyes betrayed him. He nodded curtly.

Sara hoped to herself that Grissom had a plan. She glanced for the fiftieth time at the clock hanging above the door. Its reflective face stared back, impassive as time itself. It knew nothing of their desperate battle to save Greg's life, and yet it was the enemy in the war; at least Sara had designated it so in her mind. For lack of a better vessel, she settled on the oblivious timekeeper - though Gabriel was rapidly becoming a viable option.

"I'm prepared to make a deal with you," continued Grissom. He hoped Sara had faith enough in him to stay silent. As it stood, he was barely sure himself of the outcome of his plan, sketchy as it was.

"Your department won't make a deal," said Gabriel flatly.

"I'm not making the deal on behalf of the department," said Grissom slowly, hesitantly. He studied Gabriel's reaction before plunging across the forbidden line. "If you help us locate Greg, I will personally reinvestigate your case."

Gabriel sneered, "And what makes you think I'd believe a cop?"

"I am not an officer, Gabriel. I am a scientist. And there is nothing I can do to prove my intentions, only to say; you have my word on it."

The suspense in the room was almost unbearable as Grissom delivered his potent words. Sara held her breath; she could almost see Gabriel's thought process. His hesitation was excruciating.

Grissom, too, held his breath. This was his last bargaining chip; without a success here he was lost, and with him was Greg's fate sealed. At long last, Gabriel shifted in his seat.

"All right, what do you want?"

Sara let out an explosive breath and interrupted Grissom, pressing forward eagerly.

"Where is your brother holding Greg?"

"Fuck, if you think it's gonna be like that then the deal's off. You think I know where the hell he is?" scoffed Gabriel.

Grissom shot Sara a reproachful glance and motioned for her to step back.

Keep it together, he mouthed.

Sara stepped back, steadying her breathing. The adrenaline rush she'd felt at such imminent triumph had taken her by surprise.

"I'm sure you don't know where he is. But maybe you know where he might be. Where would your brother go if he was under duress?"

"He doesn't go anywhere. Before he was busted you'd never find him away from his kids or work."

Exasperated, Grissom glanced at the clock. An hour 'till midnight. Its ticking hands taunted him. And yet, he felt there was something it was trying to communicate. Could time be the answer? All wounds heal with time. On a hunch, he pressed Gabriel.

"Is there anything you can remember from your childhood? A favourite memory?"

"I don't know."

"Think! This is your only chance," said Grissom, leaning in close to Gabriel and speaking with all the intensity of hours of desperation and frustration. "You might not know where he is, you might not know anything about this. But you know your brother and you...know...what he would do. Now where is he."

"Look, maybe...when we were kids, our dad would take us all, my brothers I mean, down to these abandoned army bunkers in the desert. Ed used to get a real kick out of them; we'd pretend to be like, guerrilla fighters hiding out and shit."

Grissom straightened and shot Sara a glance of triumph. She was already reaching for her phone.

"Where are they."

"On the 15 about two miles south of Erie - "

Dimly through the fog permeating his senses Greg could hear the sirens cut through chill air. From his position on the floor he could see the man flinch and turn to the door of his prison. Greg could almost feel the vibrations of feet pounding on stairs and the muffled thud of a fist banging on the metal door. His cheek pressed against the gravel floor; grit punctured the wounds on his face as he blinked away tears of frustration at not being able to move, to give any sign of life. His last chance was coming, he could sense it; and yet he was not ready. Greg floated in a dream world, the man blurring in and out of focus.

"This is LVPD! Open up! Edward Pelowszki, you're surrounded; open the door!" yelled a familiar but garbled voice.

Greg almost cried with relief, though that more lucid part of his brain was being overwhelmed by the manic visions. It was unreal, there was really no one there, and Greg was in fact going to die, cold and alone on the floor, crying for his friends. He'd imagined their arrival so many times while suffering through bouts of madness that he could barely reconcile his two realities coming together.

"This isn't working, Brass! He won't open the door, we have to get him out of there!" yelled Sara frantically, pounding on the door. "Greg! Greg! Can you hear me?"

"Sara, get out of the way!" shouted Brass as officers rushed down the stairs behind her.

"Let them do their jobs, Sara," murmured Grissom, though he too felt an immense urge to pound on the door as if to magically dissolve it. Sara turned wild eyes to the rest of the team, who stood with guns cocked, nervously staring the door down. They were all thinking the same thing. Please don't let him be dead.

"Go away," sounded through the door. "If you step through that door he's dead. I've got a gun on him. We will die together, here and now!" yelled the crazed voice.

Greg heard the conversation as though from a great distance. He felt the stirrings of his former resolution in the depths of his heart. A great anger welled up, obliterating all sense of pain or sanity, aimed at the world of torment he found himself in and at the man who so callously decided his fate. With a strangled groan Greg summoned all the strength left in his body; mustered as fuel all the anguish and fear that had kept him company through the long hours and gathered his torn body beneath him. With one great leap he hurled himself up, up at the man and the gun and screamed an unholy war-cry as torn ligaments and flesh ruptured anew, arms outstretched he met his fate.

The sound of the gunshot reverberated in his mind and his world exploded in blinding pain, shooting out from his chest in a storm of blood.

The gunshot rent the air around them; stunned, the frantic workers stood rooted to the spot before Sara's frightful shriek mobilized them.

"Greg! NO!" Sara screamed and flattened herself against the door, tears streaking her face as she slammed her palms into the door repeatedly.

I'm dying, thought Greg sluggishly as he fell through the air. The acrid smell seared his nose. Red mist fell around him; risking a glance downward he knew it came from the gaping wound in his chest. Flesh gasped for air as his heart contracted painfully, pressing against his ribcage in a desperate attempt to reverse the damage. His breath hissed out slowly and he toppled with the man. Pain retreated to second place as darkness came to claim him; he blinked the tears away wearily. Time slowed almost unbearably as he waited for the darkness to take him and a weak moan escaped his lips.

This is it, he thought.

But I don't want to die, he whispered, before the darkness wrapped itself around his ruined body tenderly and carried him away.

"We got it!" exclaimed an officer as the door clicked open.

Sara was first to break through into the room. The stench of dried blood hit her forcefully and she pressed a sleeve to her mouth to keep from vomiting. A nightmare swam before her eyes; she was no longer sure of what she was seeing as the euphoria of finding Greg clashed with the sight that confronted her. Time slowed as she was pushed aside by paramedics and she retreated to a corner, pressing her back against the wall and sobbing into her fist. Two figures lay sprawled on top of each other on the blood-soaked floor - Greg's blood? - she could not tell whose body was whose. The smell of fresh gunpowder pervaded the air; the blood, so much blood, pooled around them. Their faces were unrecognizable, congealed and dried mixed with freshly sprayed, rivulets working their way down to meet the ground.

The rest of the team burst in after the paramedics; to Sara it seemed an eternity of waiting as she fought with bouts of nausea. Their shocked faces betrayed the same emotions as she, huddled together they were unsure how to proceed as paramedics rushed to extricate the two bodies and find signs of life. The notion that after all Greg might not survive, that she may have witnessed his demise on the other side of a door, unable to help, descended and she finally lost it; turning to the wall she brought up the coffee she'd downed that day. A jumble of voices reached her, a cool hand touched her back and she instinctively knew it belonged to Grissom. She took strength from it and turned back to watch one of the bodies being loaded to a stretcher. She prayed it was Greg. Time returned to normal speed abruptly and the echoing left her ears; she now heard the medics' radio transmissions calling for admission to a hospital. They ran beside the stretcher.

"Is he all right?" yelled Grissom above the noise of the helicopter.

"He's in bad shape," shouted a paramedic over his shoulder. "The gun was right between them. The bullet went through the man's jaw and face but not before blasting a hole into this man's chest. With all the prior damage he sustained to the area, it'll be a miracle if he makes it."

Grissom turned to the team who stood still, shocked by the sobering news.

"Meet us at Desert Palms. I know Greg, and he won't give up like this, not this easily. He'll make it through."

With a nod in their direction Grissom climbed into the helicopter behind the last paramedic. The team followed the helicopter as it rose into the air carrying its precious cargo.

"Stay with me, Greg."


	11. The Denigration of Despair

**I know I said the story was over before but after reading it over again I felt I hadn't done the ending enough justice and certainly hadn't given Greg the proper closure he needed. So this is definitely the ending, now. **

**Thank you Harper for your awesome reviews this whole time, they kept me going while I was rewriting the same line countless times. And thank you all for your kind reviews.**

**I do not own the characters of CSI, they are the sole property of CBS and its subsidiaries.**

"You've been strong for so long, just keep going a little while longer."

"We're almost there, Greg."

Grissom looked down at the bloodied form being jostled by the helicopter's motion, the body he prayed would make it through this one last hurdle.

"Just stay with us, Greg. Do it for me," he whispered.

Greg swam through darkness for what seemed an eternity. At times he would surface to strange beeps and lights. They intruded upon his peace and he retreated, frightened, into the safe cocoon of what he assumed was the transition from life to death. Voices reached out to him; not ready for contact with the dead he pushed them away resolutely. Yet they came back time and again, insistent yet tender. He recognized his mother's voice. But she was not dead. He feared for her; was she in the same place as him?

Please, no, he whispered. The darkness did not respond.

Grissom paced the halls of the hospital, weary yet determined to see the matter through to the end. The helicopter ride had been tense with suspense; his emotions waxing and waning fitfully as he stared at Greg's comatose body. The past day's torment had etched lasting marks on his once joyful face and he struggled visibly, caught in some residual nightmare, no doubt. Blood had been hurriedly wiped away to facilitate life-saving apparatus, but Greg's frail body craved more. Grissom gently wiped away the sweat with a handkerchief.

His official duties having been completed by the time they reached the hospital, Grissom could follow the body as it was wheeled into surgery. His feelings of helplessness as he watched Greg grapple with death felt all too familiar. He'd assumed they would go away once Greg had been found, but standing behind the glass, pleading with whatever cosmic power controlled his fate, Grissom came to a bleak realization. His team was never safe; where one crisis was dealt with there would always be another to bring about those helpless and guilt-ridden feelings.

"How's he doing, Gris?"

Startled out of his reverie, Grissom turned to see Nick and Catherine, accompanied by Greg's parents. Sara, Warrick and Brass trailed them farther down the hall.

"Grissom. Thank you so much for finding our son," said Mrs. Sanders before he could respond, grasping his hands tightly.

Grissom cleared his throat bashfully and wished he could feel as confident as she, but all he could do was blame himself for Greg's predicament. Putting on a forced smile, he awkwardly patted her shoulder.

"He's a strong man, Mrs. Sanders. He did all the work himself. And my team was really the one who figured it all out. I'm just glad we arrived when we did."

The hospital was quiet in the night, yet it seemed to the group assembled that all the activity in the world was centred in the one room they were barred from.

"Did he wake up in the helicopter?" asked Catherine, risking a glance into the curtained room. She saw only the silhouettes of doctors and machinery.

"No," said Grissom, turning back to his contemplations.

Like statues, they waited for news. Hospital staff passed and announcements crisscrossed the air above them but they stayed oblivious, focused on the struggle going on within the room.

Greg cried silently in his dreams. He'd thought it was over. The darkness had taken him; why was he not allowed to take his eternal rest? Finally, he grasped at something. A light. It pulled him away from the comforting darkness, yet somehow he knew it was meant to be. It was time. A numbness enveloped him. His eyelids fluttered erratically before peeling open. The light which had sheltered him before now pierced his eyes and mind with the urgency borne only of reality. Greg wanted to scream at the sensory onslaught, but he could manage only a feeble moan. It seemed to alert something or someone in his immediate environment, for when he was able to concentrate he found himself surrounded by wavering faces.

Grissom's familiar features were the first to steady themselves. He smiled warmly and Greg instinctively knew it had been his voice that had coaxed him through the nightmares. Tears of relief surged behind Greg's eyes and he scanned the other faces, hoping that this time they would not be illusions.

"Hey kiddo," said Nick gruffly. "Welcome back."

"Yeah, hasn't been the same without you," muttered Warrick, looking away quickly before Greg could see a tell-tale shine.

Greg felt a peace envelop him only partly fuelled by the drugs entangling his body. He could not respond to their sentiments, but his heart swelled almost painfully as he stared at each of them, letting his thanks show through his shining eyes.

"Sleep now, honey. We will all be here when you come back," sniffed his mother as she smoothed back his hair.

Greg was buoyed by the truth of her words and suddenly the last remnants of despair vanished under the certainty that his friends would never abandon him. The sea of love and warmth was still with him when he finally drifted into a now soothing and dreamless sleep.


End file.
